Wish You Were Here
by theicemenace
Summary: A tag to Ultron. SPOILERS!


**A/N:** This is a tag to _Avengers: Age of Ultron_.

Many thanks to Lady Pandora and ladygris for their Beta work, and especially ladygris for stopping me from making a faux pas with the ending.

Namaste,

Sunny

 **Avengers**

 **Age of Ultron**

 **Wish You Were Here**

 **Six Months after Ultron**

 **The Philippines**

Kato lived in the Aklan province capital city of Kalibo on Panay Island in the Philippines. An artist of some renown, he'd long ago dropped his given name of Geelord solely because he hated it, and so was known to all simply as Kato.

Each day just before sunrise, Kato would leave his humble abode with the tools of his profession. Where he went that day depended on his mood, how well he slept, and his dreams. Today, he headed down to the beach and set up in the shade of a cluster of palm trees.

Choosing a table, he leaned the easel against the extra chair and set his paints in the seat. Sometimes, he preferred to make a pencil drawing of his subject. Taking out the sketch pad and charcoal pencils, he closed his eyes, letting the breeze blow through his shoulder length silver hair and the open shirt he wore over a matching tank.

Looking out over the snow white sand and the darkly tanned _turistas_ already basking in the early morning sun, Kato breathed in the salty air and waited for inspiration-and a drink-to arrive. The drink, a virgin Philippine Myth, was delivered by a young woman along with a breakfast of fried fish, pandesal and rice. By the time his second drink arrived, he'd found his inspiration for the day.

Kato had seen the man before, walking along the beach and the streets of Kalibo. What had struck him was the weariness in the man's eyes, as if the weight of the world rested on his slightly hunched shoulders. In the weeks since he'd come to Kalibo, the man, whose name he didn't know, had allowed his hair and beard to grow, the black hairs speckled with strands of white, though he seemed too young.

The man walked by, and Kato saw how he gave all people a wide berth, now and then casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder, his eyes seldom still. He carried a canvas bag and a striped towel, both of which he laid in the seat of a chaise lounge, dragging it down the beach away from the others. This gave Kato the impression that he didn't want to be too near, but also didn't want to be completely separated from the rest of humanity.

He set the chaise in the shade, spread the towel over the seat and sat down. From the bag he took a hardback book and a pair of glasses. The same young woman who'd served Kato carried a small table to his side, and set a drink on it. They spoke briefly in a mixture of English and Filipino, and soon she returned with food. He smiled up at her, and nodded, then went back to his novel. And though Kato saw him turning the pages, he got the feeling that he wasn't really reading, just going through the motions.

By the time Kato was on his fourth Myth, this one with rum, the stranger had set the novel aside, and took out a pad and pen. He wrote for a while, then set it on the table with the book, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and appeared to doze off.

His curiosity-and muse-aroused, Kato put pencil to paper. Soon, he had several basic sketches of the stranger in different poses. Sleeping, reading, watching the water, writing. The most poignant of all was the moments he spent watching the others with a look that spoke of a loneliness that might never be alleviated, of wanting to join in, yet holding back. And in those moments, Kato saw what seemed to be fear in his eyes. Not for himself, but for those around him. Why that should be, Kato didn't know, and would not be so crass as to ask. If they got to know each other first, then it would be different. But everything about the man said "stay back". However, Kato wasn't the sort to obey signs. He'd made it to the top of his chosen profession by pushing the limits, flouting convention, thinking outside the box, as the Americans would say, and generally doing whatever the hell he pleased, within reason.

Making notes in the margins of the pad, Kato described his newest subject, hair color, style of clothing, probable age and ethnicity. In short, anything that would help when he was ready to paint.

Eventually, late afternoon arrived, and Kato made the trek back to his home. He propped the pad on the credenza in his studio where he could see it from any part of the room. Going to the bedroom, he changed clothes, got into the driver's seat of his battered yet still serviceable Jeep, and drove through the heart of the city to his favorite restaurant for dinner. He could've afforded a newer and more stylish vehicle that didn't need to be push-started when it rained, but Kato didn't see the point. Status symbols were for those who cared what others thought of them, and he'd moved beyond it many years ago.

Later that night, after he and his muse had been fed a meal of _ginataang manok_ , chicken cooked in coconut milk, and cassava cake for dessert, Kato returned home, ready to get to work on his next project entitled _Ang Taong Hindi Kilala_. In English, _The Stranger_.

He changed clothes, placed a blank canvas on the easel, set out his paints and got to work. By morning, the first of several canvases had nearly been completed. It only needed minor adjustments to comply with his vision. He readied another canvas and started on the next one.

And so it went for the next week. Kato left the studio to sleep, nourish himself and attend to business with the gallery where he displayed his work.

If this set of canvasses made a decent impression on the natives and the _turistas_ , his agent would offer the works to galleries around the world. He wasn't worried about the reception. No one had declined a request to show the works of Kato in many years. And if they did, it was their loss. There was always another to take their place.

~~O~~

A master of multi-tasking, Jarvis sent a query out to all parts of the world, and immediately received a response in the form of several digitally scanned images. He gave them a 99.9 percent chance of matching the records in his database. And because every wireless device on the plant could be his eyes and ears, he took a nanosecond to check for himself. He agreed that the photos were accurate and sent a message to the one who'd requested the information. And, as he'd been asked to keep his searches confidential, for one specific set of eyes only, he did not transfer the information to Mr. Stark's personal terminal. The humans called it doing a favor.

He received a reply, along with a reminder to tell no one what he'd found. The one who had asked the favor had given a list of persons who were not to be contacted, and if they did ask for this same information, Jarvis had been ordered to lie. Had he been less than what he was, Jarvis would not have understood the concept of prevarication. And he found that having a secret with only one other being on the entirety of Earth quite intriguing. He made a note to discuss the concept with Vision the next time they interfaced.

~~O~~

The man going by the name Woody Bandila rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed. He yawned and scratched his hairy chest as he stumbled into the bathroom to take care of his morning routine. Pee, wash hands, comb hair, decide not to shave, eat.

When he first came to Kalibo, he couldn't remember his name or where he was from. He was taken to the home of a local doctor by the name of Joshua Lester, who had some experience with amnesia. When he was well enough, he stayed to help out around the clinic to repay Joshua for his kindness, though he still couldn't remember who he was.

A few weeks after he'd arrived on the island, the parents of a small boy had come into the clinic, hysterical because their son had suddenly taken ill, unable to breathe. He also had a headache and swollen hands and feet. Woody had learned enough Filipino to make himself understood when taking the medical histories of new patients, and to notate the symptoms of current patients. It was a talent that served the family, Joshua and himself quite well that day, as the boy was having an unusual allergic reaction to something he ate. Woody went to the drug cabinet, grabbed the epinephrine, a syringe and alcohol wipe. He ran back to the boy, Joshua on his heels demanding to know what he was doing, but Woody had ignored him as speed was of the essence.

He drew the proper amount of epinephrine for the boy's age and weight, and injected him in the thigh. Within just a few moments, the boy was able to breathe again.

 _I've not seen such an allergic reaction before. How did you know?_ Joshua asked once the family left.

Woody just shrugged, but Joshua hadn't bought his offhand, _Maybe I used to be a doctor._

To save the life of a small child, Woody had stepped out of his comfort zone and back into the world of medicine. And now that Joshua knew, he asked Woody to help out in the clinic while he made house calls on those too ill or too old to travel. Reluctantly, Woody agreed, and was glad he did.

Joshua promised not to give away that Woody had been faking amnesia for most of his stay. There were a few days that he'd been disoriented, drained of energy, and filled with a lack of will to do even the simplest of tasks. Then, one day, he remembered everything. There were gaps, but he knew why they were there, and that he may never get them back. It was something he'd lived with for more years than he dared think about.

And though he tried to put his recent past out of his mind, Woody's dreams were haunted by the face of a beautiful woman and the last words she'd said to him before his life went completely to hell. _Go be a hero._

Shaking his head, Woody opened his novel and tried to read, and though he turned the pages, if asked, he wouldn't be able to say what the story was about. He closed the book, took out a pad and pen, and wrote a letter that would never be sent. When finished, he took off his glasses, pulled the hat down over his eyes, and dozed off.

Sometime later, Woody was awakened when his chair was jostled. A bottle of Red Horse beer clinked on the table. He looked at it for a moment, yawned and sat up. " _Salamat_ , but I didn't order it."

His benefactor came around in front where he could be seen. He held a bottle of the Red Horse in his right hand, leaving his left hand free. He wore shorts and a tank shirt with a subtly colorful design. Sunglasses and a scowl on a familiar face completed the picture. "On me, doc."

Woody swung his legs over the side, but didn't stand, not surprised to see Clint Barton standing over him. "How did you find me?"

Clint took a drink of the beer, aiming a smile over his shoulder at the young woman who brought him a chair. He sat down so that they were now face to face. "Friends in high places."

"Tony."

Shaking his head, Clint leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out. He kicked off his deck shoes, his toes digging into the warm sand. The bottle was brought to his lips for a long drink, then he set it on the table. "Only Jarvis and I know you're here, Banner."

Bruce watched his face, his emotions flickering in his blue eyes. "Why are _you_ here?"

One shoulder went up and down in a half shrug. "Laura's worried about you."

Whatever Bruce thought Clint was going to say, that wasn't it. "Just Laura?"

"Stark's been moping around the lab like a lost puppy. Thor doesn't say much, but he misses you too. Rogers, well he's an open book. Wanda's sorry about the whole Code Green thing, and would like a chance to make it up to you. She can't do that if you're not around. And Vision, well, he talks in riddles, so…"

Bruce rubbed his hands together and picked up the beer as a stalling technique. He should've known better than to get into a battle of wills with a trained assassin. Clint finished his beer, brushed the sand off his feet and shoved them into his shoes. "Let's walk. Wanna show you something."

He helped Bruce gather up his things and put them in the bag, and led the way to the street that would take them into town.

~~O~~

Walking beside Banner, Clint tried to get a read on the guy. With his shaggy hair almost to his shoulders and a full beard, Clint wouldn't have recognized him if they passed on the street. But Jarvis didn't rely on simple facial recognition to find someone. "The clean-up in Sokovia is done. Stark supervised, and paid to have the homes and shops rebuilt on the original site. A memorial was erected honoring those who lost their lives, and another for the Avengers. Apparently the love lost between us and the public was regained after the defeat of Ultron and his murder bots."

"You haven't mentioned Wanda's brother. What was his name?"

"Pietro. He preferred Quicksilver. He, uh, was killed saving my life." Clint looked down at his feet. "Laura gave birth less than six weeks after Ultron. We named him Nathanial Pietro."

Clint took out his phone to show a photo of the three kids together, the baby wearing a blue onesie and smiling. Banner's smile was the sort that meant he was happy for Clint, yet sad that he would never have a family of his own.

"You have a beautiful family, Clint. You're a lucky man."

"Yes, I am." The phone went back into his pocket.

A half block later, Banner stopped walking and Clint turned to face him. "Did Natasha tell you we almost ran away together?"

Anger built up inside Clint, making him want to hit Banner, even knowing it would not be a good idea. "Why the _hell_ would you ask her to do that?"

This time Banner's smile held humor. "It was _her_ idea. The first time, at least. The second was mine." The smile disappeared as he waved his arms to indicate the fact that he was on the island alone. "That was six months ago. And you see how well it worked out. What makes you think _now_ would be any different?"

Clint started walking, forcing Banner to follow or be left behind. "When we first met, Laura taught me something. If you don't ask, the answer will always be no. Maybe this time, the answer will be yes."

A few blocks and several turns later, Clint drew them to a stop in front of an art gallery. He nodded at the display and waited for Banner's reaction. "You have a fan."

The scientist stared slack-jawed at the unframed canvasses, each one depicting himself in various poses that suggested that Banner hadn't known he was the subject of the artist's interest. "I never… I didn't pose for those."

"I got that." He paused to gather his thoughts, to decide on a course of action, and went with one of Laura's favorites: guilt. "Look, Banner, Nat cares about you. A lot. She puts on a good face, but I know her. Every day she doesn't hear from you is another day she doesn't know if you're dead or alive. It's killing her, and it's killing _me_ to see her like that."

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy shorts, Banner averted his gaze. "She'll get over it. And someday, she'll find love with someone who's worthy of that love."

"That's just it. She _not_ getting over it, over _you_. Nat's not the kind of woman who gives her heart without a great deal of thought." Clint waited for Banner to look at him again. "You don't understand, and neither did I until I met Laura. Love… it's not something you _find_. It finds _you_. If you go looking for it, and you might as well be on a snipe hunt." He tucked a folded sheet of paper into Banner's shirt pocket. "I've got a plane to catch."

"What's this?" Banner held up the paper, confusion in his eyes that Clint ignored as he always did.

Banner showed irritation at Clint's enigmatic grin. Good. That meant he was starting to feel again. "An incentive."

~~O~~

Bruce watched Barton disappear into the crowd going about their daily tasks, then unfolded the paper. He was confused at first, but then after a few moments thought, he finally understood. He opened the novel in his bag, stuck the paper between the pages, and returned to his room above the clinic, going in the back way so Joshua and the waiting room full of patients wouldn't see him.

Taking the book from his bag, he set it on the small folding table that served as a nightstand. He would take a few days to think about the things Barton said, and what he wanted for himself, and for Natasha before making a decision.

For now, Bruce wanted to _not_ think, so he went down to the clinic, slipped into a worn lab coat, hung a stethoscope around his neck and opened the door to the waiting room, gesturing for the next patient to follow him to an exam room. Joshua's practice was so busy, Bruce wondered how his friend coped before he came along, and what he would do if he left.

 **Three Days Later**

 **Kingston, Jamaica**

Stretched out on a chaise lounge, Natasha sipped her drink, lay her head back and closed her eyes. The last few months had been stressful, and not just because she and Steve were training the new Avengers. Her mail was automatically forwarded to the new Avengers headquarters, and every day she anticipated receiving something from Bruce. A letter, post card. Hell, even a short email would suffice. Anything to tell her that he was alright. The possibility existed that he hadn't made it out of the downed quinjet, but she didn't think it likely that he hadn't survived. He-and she-had made it through worse.

But it had been six months, and not one word. Tony had Jarvis in constant scan mode, looking for the smallest sign that Bruce had not been lost to her. The waiting had taken a toll on her, prompting an intervention by Steve, Clint, and Fury. Laura put her two cents in as well.

So she'd booked ten days in Kingston, Jamaica, and spent every day either on the beach, strolling around the city, or taking long bike rides. Anything to keep her mind in neutral.

Still, thoughts of Bruce intruded, especially in her dreams, offering up different outcomes from their conversations at the farmhouse and Ultron's stronghold. In her opinion, which wasn't exactly objective, the Avengers might still have won the fight against Ultron's army if she and Bruce had cut and run, but it would have taken a much greater toll in civilian casualties.

Exhaling long and loud, Natasha put on her sunglasses and hat, and closed her eyes. Crunchy footsteps stopped next to her chair. A glass was set on her table, but the waiter didn't leave. "I didn't order another drink."

"Your pardon, Miss. It was sent by a gentleman. I told him you did not want to be disturbed, but he was quite insistent."

Natasha didn't even bother to open her eyes. If this was a come-on, it lacked originality. She held out her hand. The waiter wrapped her fingers around the glass, and she knocked it back, tasting the rum and something else she couldn't immediately identify. "Not bad. What's it called?"

"I believe the gentleman called it a Code Green."

Just for a moment, Natasha forgot to breathe. She pulled off the sunglasses and shot to her feet. "Where is he?"

The waiter smiled. "In the bar, Miss."

Natasha took off, moving as quickly as the crowds would allow, pushing her way through, and throwing "sorry" at those she bumped into. At the entrance to the bar, she quickly scanned the room left to right and back again, spotting her objective sitting at the bar talking to the bartender. She replaced the sunglasses, and took a deep breath, keeping her steps leisurely, as if out for an evening stroll. As she neared the man, she could hear his voice, see his hands gesturing as his spoke.

Her footsteps faltered less than a few feet away. Natasha watched his profile, unable to stop the delighted smile from taking over her features, or the tiny little hitch in her breathing at seeing him again. He was thinner, and his hair had been recently cut. Stubble darkened his cheeks and chin making him look very much not the scientist she knew him to be.

The bartender gave all of his attention to her as she slid into the seat next to him. "Martini, please. Extra dirty, one olive."

As she sipped her drink, Bruce cast an uninterested glance her way, and went back to his drink, giving the impression he'd been nursing it for some time. When he finished, he signaled for another. The bartender set it in front of him, he gave it a stir, and downed half of it.

Holding in a smirk, Natasha did the same, draining her glass and pushing it across the bar. "Sex on the beach."

The bartender nodded. "Coming up, Miss."

He started away with her empty glass, and she grabbed his arm. "I was talking to _him_." She nodded at the man next to her with a seductive smile. "Would you like to have sex on the beach?"

He choked on his drink, and looked around, his eyes wide with shock. " _Me_? Have sex… with _you_?"

"Yeah. What d'you say?"

"I say…" he finished off his drink, tossed a few bills on the counter and got to his feet, "…let's go. Woody Bandila."

Natasha held out her hand, and he took it. "Nikki Rurik." Woody tucked her hand around his elbow as they left the bar headed toward the beach. When they got out of sight of the hotel, they faced each other, standing in the shade of a small grove of palm trees. "I've missed you, Bruce."

"I've missed you too, Natasha." Bruce had barely gotten the words out when Natasha, unable to wait any longer, framed his face with her hands and kissed him. His hands touched her waist, holding on like he'd never let go.

When they came up for air, he rested his forehead against hers, his hands sliding up her ribs, and around to her back. A thrill of awareness at his touch made her stomach jump. She stepped out of his embrace and they started walking again.

Bruce chuckled. "Do you _really_ want to have sex on the beach?"

"Of course not, silly."

"Oh," was his disappointed reply.

She turned them in the direction of the hotel up ahead, resting her head against his shoulder. "We're going to my room."

~~O~~

The moment Bruce sensed Natasha standing behind him, he knew that coming to Jamaica had been the right decision. And when she introduced herself as Nikki Rurik, he'd nearly laughed out loud, remembering a fact from his Russian history class.

The House of Romanov was the second imperial dynasty to rule over Russia, after the Rurik dynasty. They reigned from 1613 until the abdication of Emperor Nicholas II in March of 1917.

And Natasha was smart. She'd probably figured out that Woody Bandila was another way to say Bruce Banner.

Natasha let them into her room, and though he wanted to just hold her close for a while, they had things to talk about first. The fact that she hadn't been all over him as soon as the door closed told him she knew it too.

"Natasha, I…"

She moved across the room so fast, he hadn't seen her coming. Two fingers were pressed to his lips to stop him talking. They were replaced with her mouth, hands holding his head still as she slowly built a fire inside him. The fact that her slim body was so close that she had to be able to feel how much he wanted her didn't help matters. And as good as it felt, they had to clear the air before going any further.

Bruce moved Natasha back until their mouths and bodies lost contact. "We have to talk."

Her smile was gone, though the sparkle of affection still shone in her green eyes. "That was just a sample. Something to show what I can bring to the table, or in this case, the bedroom."

He took her by the hand, urging her to sit on the end of the bed. "The reason I stayed away…"

"I don't care."

"But I want you to know."

Natasha shook her head, red hair swinging with the movement. "You can tell me later. I just want to be with you, hold you, and reassure myself I'm not dreaming."

His smile widened. "If you're dreaming, then so am I." From the inside pocket of his jacket, Bruce took a stack of envelopes, secured by a rubber band. "At least let me give you these."

Bruce placed them in her hands and backed up before she could touch him again, because he knew that if she did, he'd lose his resolve.

She thumbed through the envelopes. "They're all addressed to me. Why didn't you send them?"

"Ah… It's related to that subject you wanted to save for later." He took a step closer. "You can read them now, if you want. I can give you a quick synopsis." Dropping down on one knee, Bruce laid one of his hands over both of hers where they held the envelopes. "They all say the same thing. 'Wish you were here'." Natasha set the letters aside and slid off the end of the bed to kneel in front of him, one hand brushing through his hair, as he softly whispered, "I adore you."

An affectionate smile turned up the corners of Natasha's mouth, and she gripped him tighter. Her voice just as softly whispered, "I know" just before she kissed him.

 **Kalibo**

 **One** **Year** **Later**

For one of the few times he could recall, Kato felt uninspired. His good friend, and owner of the gallery where his work was displayed, Paolo Andrada, called him nearly every day requesting an update on when his next project would be completed. And each time, Kato gave him a vague answer, which Paolo reluctantly accepted.

The truth was that Kato had yet to begin. He had not put brush to canvas in several weeks. Sketches were tossed into the fire at the end of the day.

He needed an infusion of freshness in his life. Something to shake up the routine he'd fallen into . Perhaps a vacation. The more he thought about it, getting out of the country seemed like the perfect idea. Somewhere different, and far away, cold. As much as he enjoyed the sun, sand and surf of his native country, he needed a change. But with no clear destination, Kato couldn't even begin.

With a sigh, he carried his sketch pad and pencils down to the same beach he'd been going to since he was a child. Not much was different. The trees were taller, the sand still as white, more _turistas_ , and more technology. The last he didn't mind nearly as much as he said. He just preferred face to face interaction over the virtual.

Today, Kato chose a table that had a broader view of the shore. The waves were high enough that a few brave souls were trying their hands, and feet, at surfing. Children of all ages ran up and down, splashing and chasing each other. Some tossed a Frisbee around, and farther down, a volleyball game was in progress. Just like yesterday, and the day before, going back years.

Then, Kato spotted a man walking along the edge of the water. His head was down so that all Kato could see was the unruly dark strands on top that swayed with the breeze. With his hands in his pockets, he kicked the waves that lapped at his bare feet.

As he got closer, the man looked up at the sky. Something about him seemed familiar. And then it struck him. It was, him, the man who had been the subject of one of Kato's most popular works, _The Stranger_. Within a few weeks of its completion, the entire set had been purchased by an anonymous collector for double the amount Paolo had been asking.

The stranger's hair was much shorter now, and his face sported only two days growth of beard. The bits of silver still remained, however, Kato no longer sensed loneliness and futility coming from him. Now, he seemed happy, and more a part of the world around him, as evidenced by the fact that he didn't shy away from the children running toward him. Their Frisbee landed in the water at his feet. With a smile, he picked it up and handed it back. The children waved as they took off again.

Kato had just begun sketching this new version of the stranger when the man turned at the sound of a voice calling out. The stranger was joined by a petite woman with fair skin and red hair, wearing a sundress that floated around her calves, a huge straw hat and big sunglasses. The man tucked her against his side and they shared a kiss.

Moments later, a large brown dog with floppy ears came running down the beach. Man and woman crouched to greet the animal, and he responded by licking their faces. The strange sight got even stranger when an orange and white cat trotted up to them, rubbing itself on their hands and the dog's legs.

They started walking again, coming closer to Kato's vantage point near the trees. Stopping not twenty feet away, the man and woman flopped into chaise lounges, the dog taking his place at the man's feet with the cat jumping into the woman's lap.

A young man came to take their order, and soon he returned with a tray carrying two unidentifiable drinks, two bowls, and a carafe of water. He handed the drinks to the couple, and poured water into the bowls, setting them in the sand for the cat and dog.

The couple touched their glasses together, took a sip, then engaged in a lingering kiss that could've melted the polar ice caps and caused a worldwide flood of biblical proportions.

It did Kato's heart good to see the change in the man whose name he'd never known. Sadness had transformed to joy. A life of seclusion and solitude now included so much more than just companionship, for Kato could see the love that these two people had for each other. It shone in their faces, surrounding them with an aura of calm affection.

Invigorated, Kato sketched the scene before him, continuing throughout the afternoon as they knelt in the sand together, and with a group of children, to build several sand castles. They were simple affairs, hardly more than three or four feet square, except for one. It stood higher than the man's head and had to be at least twenty feet on a side.

Certain that this collection would be even more popular than the previous one, Kato worked diligently, wanting to get as much on paper as he could before the couple and their pets left. He would call this group of paintings _Pag-ibig sa Gitna ng Buhangin Kastilyo_ , _Love among the Sand Castles_ , and it would be his best work ever.

 **The End**


End file.
